Dick's and Tom's revolvers barked viciously, and
the deadly rifles wielded by Bert and the stage driver made havoc in the
ranks of the attacking braves. Sam, the guard, wielded his heavy Colts
with the skill and sure aim of a veteran, and the Indians broke ranks
under the withering hail of bullets. They wheeled their horses off to
either side of the stoutly defended fortification and galloped out of
range, leaving a number of still figures on the ground.
"First blood for us," shouted Bert exultantly. "I guess we gave them a
warmer reception than they figured on."
"Yes, but they'll be back pretty soon," said Buck. "There's a hundred of
them if there's one, and they would never dare face the tribe again if
they let themselves be beaten by half a dozen 'pale faces'."
Nothing could have suited the three comrades better, for their fighting
blood was aroused, and all thought of danger was swallowed up in the
primitive love of battle that is inherent in every man.
"Here they come," shouted Dick, and come they did, but more cautiously
this time. They had learned their lesson, and realized how deadly was
the white mans' aim.
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